


Made of Stone

by Roxie Ann (pluvial_poetry)



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Yuletide 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 16:30:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5463395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluvial_poetry/pseuds/Roxie%20Ann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Is this how it would be? If I were yours."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Made of Stone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [specialrhino](https://archiveofourown.org/users/specialrhino/gifts).



Damen knew himself to be unsuited to the subtleties of court politics and diplomacy. It is unfortunate that with his father fallen ill and with Kastor in one of his moods, that it had become solely Damen’s burden to manage the delegation sent from Vere. It had been a role that Damen expected to be unbearable, and yet Damen had found surprising pleasure in it. If only because the Venetian King’s brother had been sent in his stead. And Damen could not have expected Laurent. 

Laurent is all sharp wit; cool and controlled. Every conversation with him is like sword play. It is a strange turn of events that Damen finds himself wishing for banter with a Veretian court member over an afternoon with the maps his generals had left him. Yet Laurent had begged off from his company, closed himself off in his rooms. It left Damen at unwanted loose ends.

The knock that comes at the door of Damen’s study is therefore a welcome interruption from his pensive mood. The guards that entered at his word pushed an unfamiliar slave ahead of them, one who went gracefully to his knees before Damen, head bowed in subservience.

“We found this one on the docks, Your Highness. He bears the lion head pin,” the guard, Pontus, says with disapproval. Damen takes no offense. Pontus was one of the old guard, a man Damen has known since he was only boot high.

The slave’s light hair shields his face from view. A finger under his chin and he obediently raises his gaze. And Prince Laurent stares up at Damen from his knees, yes, still cool and controlled, but under that; wary, assessing. And no wonder. If Damen had named him in that unguarded first moment of shock. If Damen had accused him… Espionage, treason. All crimes punishable by death in Akielos.

“Leave us,” Damen says to the room, with a voice not his own.

Laurent waits until the guards obey before he takes to his feet, never breaking eye contact with Damen. His guise is well-assembled. It’s easy to see how the guards were fooled. His face painted, his lean body wrapped in gauzy blue silks. It was difficult even for Damen to match the seductive trappings with the reserved man he had come to know. The prince Laurent survived only in the defiant, masterful gaze he levels Damen with.

Damen swallows the obvious question. He knows that whatever Laurent’s purpose on the docks had been; he will share it or not, as he sees fit. So instead he asks, “Where did you get it?”

“Your slave master is careless with his valuables,” Laurent says coolly, a finger brushing over the trinket. Damen's own hands twitch. He keeps them at his sides.

“My guards are less so.”

“It seems they are.” Laurent smiles then, a mocking little twist of his mouth. “I had hoped that the guards would let me pass. Because I’m yours. Or so the pin would signify.” The look that passes over his face is strange. Expectant. Wanting. 

It is a look Damen had only ever hoped for during the past weeks spent in Laurent’s company. Striking now because everyone knows, or says, that the young prince of Vere is celibate. More likely, given his age and beauty, that he is simply cautious. Choosy. Damen could not have expected that Laurent would ever choose him.

He hopes that the tilt of Laurent's head is as purposeful as it seems. He hopes he is not imagining the pull between them; tidal, and undeniable. And so it is to Damen's relief that when he reaches out, his hand coming to rest over the cold metal of the lion head pin, Laurent’s heart beats fast under his palm and he does not pull away.

“Will you trust me?” Damen asks. As he has trusted Laurent, goes unsaid.

“I must,” Laurent says, and he lets himself be taken by the hand and lead down through the palace halls. The magic of a well run household means that they meet no one along the way and that when they come to Damen’s rooms, the waters of his bath are warm and rose-scented, as though they were expected.

When Damen had imagined it, he had always thought to take his time, undressing Laurent. He would be slow, patient, in revealing the skin kept under so much cover. And it would have taken time; the Veretian laces alone would have needed some work to master. But Akielon clothing was designed with ease in mind, and so once the clasp at Laurent’s shoulder is undone, he stands bare before Damen. Long and lean and pale; Damen’s imagination had not done him justice. He couldn’t have fathomed the strength of Laurent’s limbs, the pink of his nipples, the fullness of his backside.

Damen pulls his own tunic over his head, shoving his underclothes down to the floor. Laurent’s gaze skims over Damen’s chest, thighs, his cock, an appealing flush gracing his cheeks.

Laurent makes no protest when Damen draws him into the water, stands quiet as Damen wets a cloth and uses it to remove the paint from his face. Damen has never known a man with a deadlier tongue than Laurent. He has leashed it for now, letting the moment settle silent and solemn between them.

Damen lets go of the cloth, holds Laurent’s face in his hands.

“I want to kiss you.”

“You’ve wanted to since we first met,” Laurent observes.

“Yes.”

“And so?” Laurent asks, a challenge in his raised brow. And Damen, helpless to do anything else, answers.

It is here that Damen finds himself lingering; the tip of a finger tracing the shell of Laurent’s ear, the strong curve of his jaw, the fullness of his lips. Laurent leans into each touch, his eyes bright, watching. They only slide closed as Damen presses their lips together.

Laurent has always seemed as impenetrable as stone, but water has a way of smoothing a stone's sharp edges. Laurent does not soften, Laurent is not pliable against him. But there is a yielding here, as Laurent parts his lips, letting Damen take them again and again.

Damen finds himself grateful for the water that buoys them, and to Laurent’s firm grip on his shoulders, because his knees feel uncertain as he holds Laurent closer, the tentative movement of Laurent’s tongue against his enough to unman him.

Laurent is the one to pull back, take his breath, leaning heavily against the marble walls of the bath. “And is this how it would be? If I were yours?”

It takes a moment for Laurent’s inference to sink in, for Damen to recall how they came to be here.

“Yes,” he answers honestly. And, because he wonders, “If I were yours? How would it be between us?”

Laurent considers him through half-masted eyes, his gaze as bold as a touch. “In Vere, a slave would wear a gold collar, and cuffs,” he says, and carefully, purposefully, he slides a hand in Damen’s hair. He uses his grip to tug Damen down until he can set his teeth to Damen’s neck.

Damen arches into the hurt, wincing only when Laurent lets go. The moment of reprieve is fleeting. Laurent soon has Damen’s hands in his, bringing Damen’s wrists to his mouth, and just as deliberately bites him there, first the right wrist, then his left.

The world narrows. There is no sound but that of Laurent’s breaths to his ear. There is no taste except for that which Laurent left on his tongue. He feels only Laurent’s marks on him.

"But you are not my slave." Laurent's voice breaks through his reverie; his words at odds with his possessive grasp on Damen's wrists, tight enough that Damen would have to struggle to be freed. Yet he has no desire for Laurent to release him.

"I think that I must be," Damen says, closing his eyes in the face of it, the all-consuming need. It is still Laurent he sees, even then. The brief and then ruthlessly concealed flicker of surprise on Laurent's face when they were first introduced. Laurent's unexpected skill with a sword as they sparred in the palace courtyard. He thought of Laurent's careful fingers on the scrolls of Akielon history in the library, and Laurent's laugh; hard won.

Laurent lets go of his grip on one hand, only to wrap his fingers around the length of Damen's cock, risen eagerly between them.

Damen tries to breathe, and says, "I like that." 

"You are easy to please."

"You please me," Damen says, the words inadequate but true.

Laurent's hand on him is as easy as the lap of the water on their skin, timed to the quick exhales of his breath.

Damen could have spent there and then, just like that. But the pleasure that he felt would be better shared.

He caught Laurent's hand, stilling it, Laurent watching him warily. There is too much distance between them like this, Laurent's natural reticence holding him separate in a way that Damen can't bear.

He takes Laurent's face in his hands again, and Laurent seems to recall himself, consciously relaxing his shoulders. He allows Damen to kiss him, and Damen does so slowly, deepening it only when Laurent releases a shaky breath and parts his lips.

He takes his time and it is a gift to himself to do so. Kissing the fine pale skin behind Laurent's ear, and at the notch of his throat. This show of patience is clearly not what Laurent had imagined from him; each kiss accepted with a kind of wary confusion, an expression that slowly melts away under Damen's persistence. 

Pulling back, seeing the darkness of Laurent's eyes, the pebbling of his nipples is exhilarating. Damen knows his hands close too tightly around Laurent's arms, but Laurent utters no complaint.

"What would please you?" He wants nothing more than that; Laurent's pleasure.

Laurent looks up at him through his lashes. "I'm not sure that I know."

Damen rests his hand on Laurent's ribcage, lets the slow roll of the water drift their bodies closer still, as he thinks. "Have you done this before?" he asks.

Laurent considers him for a moment. And because he always chooses his words for impact, he watches what it does to Damen as he says, "Not with you."

Shy and nervous he may be, but Laurent is not uncertain. It is a deliberate movement; that he allows the bath walls and the water to take his weight, spreading his thighs and pulling Damen between them. Damen does as he is bid.

Laurent shows no hesitation now, only eagerness, as his mouth opens for Damen's. It is Damen who begins to feel the twinge of nerves, having what he so desired placed within his hands.

There are bottles of oil scattered around the bath's edge, Laurent sniffing at all within reach at his leisure as Damen struggles to find the last of his restraint. Laurent's soft skin beckons him to touch, to taste, to possess fully. At last, the one least offensive to Laurent's senses is found and presented to Damen with a cool nod.

He takes new meaning in Laurent's earlier words. It is an act he has done many times before; the oil slicking his hands, a finger pressing inside, and being clutched tight. But he has never done this with Laurent. He finds himself captivated by all of Laurent's expressions and sounds, the heat and movement of Laurent's body against his own. It seems impossible that he is being given this, that Laurent could desire this as much as he does, and yet there could be no doubt now. Not with Laurent's arms curled around Damen's shoulders and his mouth insistent as he takes another kiss from Damen.

He tilts Laurent's hips, looking for a better angles, burying his face in Laurent's golden hair as he presses in.

He loses himself then, is completely Laurent's in that moment, as they fit together, become one.

Damen holds there as long as he can stand it, savoring the intimacy, the fragility of this moment, being allowed inside of Laurent. Then Laurent cries out his name and Damen is helpless to resist his command, his hips moving, taking him deeper and harder. It is everything he could ever want and still he wants more of it, never wants to leave, never wanting it to end. This moment, where he is Laurent's and Laurent is his.

It cannot last forever, too sweet and new. Laurent makes an urgent noise, his lips pressed to the rapid pulse of Damen's heartbeat, his legs tight around Damen's thighs as he shudders and spills into the water.

"Laurent, please," Damen says and Laurent answers, "Yes," as Damen's body jerks and he comes inside of Laurent.

In the aftermath Laurent lays his head on Damen's shoulder, his golden hair falling over Damen's arm, damp and tangled. A sweet, unguarded gesture that Damen feels like a blow to the chest.

A strange thing that a prince should so easily become a slave.

"You haven't asked me," Laurent reminds him then, his voice low and intimate. "Why I was found on the docks, dressed as your slave. Would you like to know?"

It would have taken a stronger man than he to resist him. And Damen was not made of stone. Not now. Now more than ever he is wet clay, molded into the shape of Laurent’s fist. And so he can only respond, "Tell me."

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://pluvial-poetry.tumblr.com/)


End file.
